


Better Half

by HelloAfternoon



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Best Friends, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Light-Hearted, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Teasing, Women's Underwear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 07:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11801250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloAfternoon/pseuds/HelloAfternoon
Summary: “What are you doing, boss?!” Deacon gasps, mock offended.“Spanking you,” Nathan says, and gives Deacon that loving, innocent, we’re-just-friends smile. God damn it, that’s going to keep Deacon up at night for weeks.





	Better Half

**Author's Note:**

> warning for deacon being a bit nasty. warning for eventual, brief mention of child abuse. warning for deacon being quite a bit older than the sole survivor, as per the in game implication that hes much older than he looks and how fucking funny that is to me

“Did you just, like, pop out of the womb holding a gun, or what?” Deacon asks, leaning against the wall of a derelict, skeletal house as Nathan fiddles with the lock on a stubborn wallsafe. “Stick ‘em up, mommy!” Deacon squeaks for what he hopes is comical effect.

Nathan just looks at him flatly over his shoulder as the lock pops, a bent bobby pin in his cheek, dark eyebrows raised. “Not sure if that’s a compliment or not, Dee.”

“I do love to keep you in suspense,” Deacon replies easily. “You’re just really good at shooting, and looting, and stealing, and, uh, threatening people for their lives...I figured it had to start somewhere.”

“It started in the seventh grade when Bobby Garcia stole my Grognak Lunchbox. I decked him and took his lunch money. Never looked back,” Nathan replies, sorrowful.

“Really?”

“No. Let’s move.”

“Aw, boss, it’s not fair to use my own tricks against me!” Deacon pouts, whining openly as Nathan gets up, pockets the caps and ammo from the safe, and swings his messenger bag over his shoulder.

“You wouldn't have backed out of the lie,” Nathan replies with an innocent wink, taking the bobby pin out of his mouth and hooking it in his back pocket. “Deke, seriously-you do a lot of goofing around and smoking while I’m working. Would it kill you to stand watch or something? Having you watching my back feels like having my pants down in a public library."

“Suspiciously specific comparison,” Deacon says. “I’m totally looking out! I can look out during my smoke break! I have, like, eyes!”

“As long as you aren’t being TOTALLY useless,” Nathan smirks. “And my library proclivities are none of your business.”

“I’m telling Des that you’re violating my rights as an employee.”

“I’m telling her that you have naughty holos in your desk at HQ,” Nathan says with a downright cheshire grin, before turning on his heel and flouncing off, knowing he has the upper hand. Deacons mouth drops open in exaggerated shock and he walks briskly after Nathan into the streets of Boston.

“You _wouldn't!_ A man has needs!”

Nathan turns, walking backwards, and coos, running his hands up and down his body. “I’m a naughty cheerleader _slut,_ Deke! Spank me hard!”

“You’re never ever going to let that go, are you?” Deacon grumbles as he catches up, as resigned as he is amused. It’s not as if he really cares if Des finds out that he keeps porn in his desk-honestly, it would be pretty funny to watch her react to the news of his rampant unprofessionalism-it's just that likes the little game where he and Nathan pretend to have dirt on each other. It’s a game with no real stakes and no real consequences that they play over and over, empty threats and light teasing and, sometimes, a little bit of flirting. Deacon is pretty sure that the flirting is disingenuous, but damn, if it weren't-he’d be on Nathan like stink on shit.

Wait, that’s not a very sexy comparison. The point is, Nathan is beautiful, and the first real friend Deacon has had in-fuck, years. He has this magical way of making Deacon feel good-so good he forgets to hate himself, just for moments at a time.

“I just didn't pin you for the cheerleader type,” Nathan says with a grin. “Though that does give me an idea for a good Halloween costume,” he teases, nudging Deacon with his elbow and then sticking his tongue out as if he’s just said something really clever. God, it’s hard to not love him.

“What, as if I'm supposed to feel embarrassed about seeing you humiliate yourself?”

Nathan sees the flaw in his jest, and recalculates. “Guess I’ll just have to dispose of the holo, then, since you’re so bound and determined to be a sick, depraved little man.”

“Aw, Nate, don’t even joke about that!"

“Then how would you get your jollies, huh? Can you even shoot your goo without somebody in a blond wig with pigtails pretending to drop something and then bending down reeaal far to pick it up?”

“You are a cruel and merciless god,” Deacon huffs. “You’ve missed the point as always, though, my friend. I don’t watch for the _spankee_ , as it were, but the spankER. I’m not the teacher in the scenario-I’m the naughty cheerleader,” he grins.

Nathan puts a hand over his mouth, faux scandalized. “Well, I know what disguise we’re getting you next!”

“You think I could pass as college aged? Aw, you flatterer!”

Then, biting his lip and getting a glint in his eye, Nathan swings his arm and applies a very, very firm smack to Deacon's ass. Deacon yelps and jumps, unused to sudden bodily contact OR having his ass slapped, and shirks away, gawking.

“What are you doing, boss?!” Deacon gasps, mock offended.

“Spanking you,” Nathan says, and gives Deacon that loving, innocent, we’re-just-friends smile. God damn it, that’s going to keep Deacon up at night for weeks.

They trek out of the city and into the wilderness, headed towards Sanctuary hills. Nathan has received news via radio freedom that there’s some sort of debacle up there in need of his immediate loving attention and, like a good general, he’s making quick work of the space between him and the problem he needs to solve.

They stop by an ol, derelict shack to rest and bathe in a nearby stream.

“It’s not quite the ritz, is it?” Deacon asks when they’re washed and dressed again, looking around the inside of the dusty shanty, which comes complete with a dry skeleton propped against the far wall that may very well have been there for the entirety of the 200 years since the world ended.

“Oh, please. They’d throw you outta the ritz,” Nathan says with a scoff, just before a boom and crack of thunder whips and rolls through the sky outside. “Uh oh,” Nathan mutters. “That sound bad to you?”

“What, you mean the spooky lightning in the distance? Y’know, now that you mention it, it IS a little pants shittingly terrifying in here!” Deacon replies in reference to the skeleton, because he hears skeletons are a thing people used to be scared of before the horrors of nuclear annihilation.

Nathan just looks rather fixated on the weather. “The air is heavy. This is bad.”

Deacon has no idea what he means by the air being heavy, but Nathan tends to be able to predict that sort of thing, so Deacon drops his bag and sets about lighting a nearby oil lamp for proper light as the sky outside darkens considerably in what seems to be only a matter of minutes.

“Shit," Nathan says after a bit, his pip-boy clicking away. “It’s a radstorm. We have Rad-X, right?”

“Yeah, boss,” Deacon replies dutifully. As long as they avoid the worst of the elements, they should remain relatively safe. Their rest stop is well lit and the chances of raiders risking an attack in weather like this is relatively low, which is fortunate. Deacon doesn’t like being pinned down in an unfortified location, though. He feels like a sitting duck.

“Well, I guess we’re sleeping here tonight,” Nathan says, surveying the main room of the shack they’ve walked into. The cabin is small-the only other rooms are an adjoined bedroom and bathroom, a stove set up in the living room and slipshod kitchenette. 

“Any nearby ferals are gonna fuckin’ swarm with the rads this high,” Nathan grouses. “Well, at least we have shelter. I’d rather be in here than out there.”

“Amen to that,” Deacon replies, pulling up a rickety old wooden chair and sitting on it. His feet are beyond sore and he’s quite tired, but he has a history of sleeping poorly and knows better than to go to bed before he’s completely exhausted. He looks out the window, watching irradiated rain streak down the dusky, weather worn panel of glass.

“These storms always make me get all melancholy,” Nathan says. “Feels like I should write poetry or become an alcoholic or something.”

“Don’t do either of those things, please.”

Nathan reaches a hand up and turns a blade on the ceiling fan slowly around. It creaks painfully and drops dust in his face, and he coughs, waving his hand to clear the air.

“Well, at least I have booze,” Nathan grumbles, and pulls a bottle of Bobrov’s Best from his bag.

“You better share!” Deacon whines.

“With my partner in crime? Always,” Nathan says with a happy, relaxed sort of familiarity that makes Deacon feel uncomfortably mushy in the middle, like a cookie that isn't quite done baking. “Here, lemme open it,” he says, and pops the cork out with his combat knife, sniffing it and coughing. “Augh. Foul.”

“But very effective,” Deacon points out with a wag of his eyebrows and point of his finger.

“Yes. God bless Vadim and Yefim,” Nathan says, toasts, and then swings the bottle back. He takes one burning gulp, his adams apple bobbing in the dim yellow light where Deacon can see it and think about kissing it. Then he draws the bottle back with a hiss, licking his slicked lips and handing it to Deacon as he sits down on a chair near him.

“Thanks, babe,” Deacon replies. Nathan snorts. Deacon tastes him on the lip of the bottle-or he imagines he does. Realistically he probably doesn’t taste anything but impending liver damage, but he likes to think that he can taste just a bit of Nathan’s mouth on it, then reprimands himself mentally for having such thoughts about someone who doesn't reciprocate and can't consent to appear in his fantasies.

If his tongue darts out to lick the rim of the bottle before he passes it back, well, it can’t be proven in a court of law.

They get pleasantly buzzed and Deacon grab-asses until Nathan can’t stand him anymore, scooting his chair away and kicking at Deacon with his muddy shoes on, to which Deacon shrieks and bats him away. Deacon likes to get buzzed, but hates to get drunk-it loosens his tongue a little too much for his comfort. Even now, feeling only lightly intoxicated on bad booze and good company, Deacon feels too vulnerable.

Nathan ends up letting Deacon have the bed, which Deacon is more than pleased to accept. Nathan might be a hot 25 year old widower, but Deacon is headed into his fifties soon and will be irreparably damaged by sleeping on the ground too much.

Nathan sets up his bedroll in the main room and strips his pants off easily in front of Deacon like Deacon isn’t trying his damndest not to look at him. Deacon has the advantage of wearing sunglasses, which conceal the exact direction that he’s looking and a good portion of his facial expression, but Nathan seems to be so oblivious to the weird atmosphere he creates that it doesn’t really matter. Nathan pulls his heavy combat armor off and lets it thunk to the ground until he’s only in his undershirt and his underwear-little black briefs, Deacon observes, depositing that information in the spank bank to be withdrawn later for personal use.

He feels guilty, though, and looks away as he pull his own jeans off and steps out of them. He’s not blind to his relationship with Nathan, but Nathan is considerably younger than he is and deeply oblivious to boot-if he knew a creep like Deacon was ogling him he’d probably jump out of his skin. Deacon doesn’t look as old as he is due to his constant, er, _surgical corrections_ , but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel like a creep every time he hectares himself appreciating the way Nathan's tight, worn down jeans stretch over the round plane of his ass when he squats down to work on his power armor.

It makes him feel dirty. The problem with feeling dirty and Deacon being disgusting is that Deacon is INTO feeling dirty-which kind of defeats the point of feeling dirty int he first place.

The adjoined bedroom is separated from the living room by a wall with a doorway in it, the door long since rotted off its hinges or scavenged or torn down by wildlife, who knows. The point is, when Deacon lies down to sleep and feels the low, electric hum of arousal threatening to keep him awake all night, there’s naught but an open doorway separating him from Nathan, who snoozes peacefully in the next room without a care in the world. Deacon sort of hates him for being able to just exist peacefully like that and not constantly battle his weird attraction to his younger, more attractive business partner. It’s just not fair.

Deacon tosses and turns for a bit, but he keeps getting lost in thoughts about the naked backs of Nathan’s thighs, the power in his upper arms, his soft, full lips-damn, those lips. Deacon bets he sucks cock like a pornstar, with that fat bottom lip-

Deacon huffs out a breath of air, disappointed with himself, and rolls onto his back. Still half lost in the daydream, he reaches down to palm himself experimentally through the thin fabric of his underwear.

Panties. Not that he’d ever tell anyone. Nathan has spied them under the hem of his jeans more than once and teased him about it, but it's their little secret. Deacon claimed it was for disguise purposes. Nathan had given him the most hilariously skeptical stare of the century, but had not mentioned it to anyone when they got back to HQ. Deacon's angel of mercy.

His cock is hot and hard under his hand. Damn, how long has it been since he last jerked off? Too long, apparently, because his body is oversensitive and his imagination is hyperactive. Maybe if he took a little time off every once in awhile to treat himself to a good chicken choking he wouldn’t be so desperate all the time, but it’s hard to say no to Nathan when he’s running constant ops for the good of synthkind and, well, when Deacon's life is so much better with him around.

Deacon indelicately extricates himself from his underwear, pulling the lacy waistband down below his balls so he can hang free. He glances at the doorway where the oil lamp is burning, lighting up the room Nathan is in. As usual-Nathan is in the light and Deacon is in the dark, doing something unsavory.

He exhales, relieved, and runs his fingers gently over his balls before giving his cock a slow, hesitant tug. The results are immediate and overpowering-he almost chokes out a gasp, his back arching, knees rising and parting. He’s so sensitive-damn, if Nathan finds out-

He has to do this quick. He immediately takes up a punishing, near-painful pace, careful to keep the sounds dampened, mouth hanging open, head back, eyes screwed shut. The physical sensation would be more than enough to get him off at this point, but his filthy mind still runs wild with fantasies about the man a room away from him. 

Nathan naked, fucking, being fucked. One with Deacon on his knees, wearing a collar-Nathan forcing his head down over his cock, calling him his puppy-oh, that's messed up, he shouldn't-the scene changes, and then it’s Nathan on his front, bent over, Deacon fucking him, Nathan yanking on his leash, tight and hot and pliant, _good dog_ -

Deacon chokes the noise in his throat down as his orgasm cracks over his body like a whip, cum landing on his belly and in his hand, his hips pushing up into the feeling, his mind still reeling over the potency of that particular fantasy, no matter how nasty it might've been. He milks himself through it, barely keeping his stilted whimpering to himself, the quiet, wet sound of his hand stroking his cum slicked cock the only noise in his room he can hear over his pounding heart.

When it’s done, he rolls over and reaches into his bag, wiping spunk on his mailman disguise. He’ll have to mark that one for a good, thorough wash if he wants the stink of sweat and cum to ever come out of it.

Satisfied and jelly-legged, if not still a bit drunk on pleasure and fantasy, he rolls over so his back is facing Nathan’s door, where he might as well be looming with a scowl on his face for as guilty Deacon feels about what he just did. He exhales a slow, satisfied breath to even his breathing and heart rate, his cock still pulsating pleasantly between his legs, going soft but remaining sensitive, still a little horny, the delicate skin feeling too good against the lacy underwear. Hell, he could go for a real marathon right now, but he can’t, not with Nathan a room away. He needs to get SOME sleep tonight.

He wakes up early because he always does. He always wakes himself up, too instinctively driven to remain alert and aware at all times to really sleep deeply. He gets out of bed quietly and pulls his pants on, feeling suddenly way more ashamed about last night than he had when it was happening-that’s kind of how jerking off works, in his experience. In the moment it's the best thing since deathclaw steak-later it’s like being convicted of a crime.

Still, he puts his shades on and tiptoes out into the main room, where Nathan has curled his bedroll into a ball and is sleeping in the fetal position, head buried between his wrists, dark brown hair wild and twisted and sticking up, his ears pink and his body warm and mushy with sleep. Deacon steps around him to go check the windows and the perimeter-nothing in sight.

The storm from last night downed a few branches from the overhead trees, but nothing substantial was damaged, and there doesn't seem to be anything to worry about outside except he occasional rad-rabbit. Deacon walks back to his new bedroom to don his wig, pulling on a flannel shirt and tying a bandanna around his neck.

He pulls an issue of Robco Fun from his bag that he keeps with him. He just reads the old world articles over and over, imaging what it must've been like to be so unbothered by the despair of the world. He flips through it until Nathan eventually stirs in the next room.

He gets up and walks to lean in the doorway. “Good morning, sunshine,” he coos, sarcastic.

Maybe if he just gets their banter going again he can feel more okay and less like some kind of scheming pervert.

Nathan turns over with the most adorable look on his face, messed up and half asleep. It feels like a punch of Deacon’s gut. He’s all soft with sleepiness, his wide eyes half lidded, dark eyelashes on full display, his expression tender and not fully awake. His hair sticking up everywhere. He blinks at Deacon blearily and then scratches the beginning of a beard forming on his chin-past five o clock shadow, not yet progressing into anything substantial. Then a slow, pleasing smile stretches over his perfect mouth.

“Morning, Dee,” he croaks, his voice raspy and low from sleep. It makes Deacon feel so-oh, god, at once so beautifully trusted and so dirty and so attracted to him, a little electric zing going from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Why do sleep voices have to be so sexy, and what does Nathan have to have such a radio-deep voice anyway? He could probably narrate The Silver Shroud something. His lithe, smallish frame suggests his voice should be higher pitched than it is, but it’s a pleasing, low rumble.

Then Nathan turns on his back and flops down, rubbing his eyes. “I keep half expecting you to bring me coffee and breakfast. Gotta say, Deke-the room service is awful.”

“Aw, boss, you know I’d bring you breakfast in bed if I could.”

The most absurd thing is that Deacon kind of means it.

Nathan just chuckles and sits up, scratching at his chest and smacking his lips. “The storm…?”

“Killed us both in our sleep,” Deacon replies. “You’re dead. Sorry.”

“Any news to report, my eye in the sky?” Nathan says. Deacon doesn’t really get what that means-probably some old world thing.

“No. Looks like the way is clear-or, as clear as it ever gets,” Deacon informs. “I’m packed. You ready to head out?”

“Breakfast first,” Nathan says wagging a finger at Deacon.

“Cold potted meat,”” Deacon says, his sarcasm not stopping his tummy from growling. “Mmm mm mm!”

They scarf down breakfast quickly. Deacon helps Nathan into his combat armor, tightening the padded straps over his shoulders, and tries not to think too hard about-well, about anything.

One the way to Sanctuary, Deacon tries hard for a game of I-Spy, but Nathan isn’t really biting.

“I spy with my little eye, something...blue.”

“The sky.”

“Damn! Okay. I spy with my little eye something big and-”

“The sky.”

“You’re a mind reading institute spy here to end my life, aren’t you?”

Eventually they hit one of the main roads and know they’re getting close. It leads to Red Rocket and then to Sanctuary. On the way, Nathan tunes in to Diamond City Radio, listening to some 200 year old bop that he bounces along to. He dances like people in the old world did-all hoppy and flouncy with a lot of footwork and kicking. Deacon would never tell him, but it’s adorable. It kind of makes Deacon wish that he’d teach him how to do it, how to have an impromptu sockhop in the middle of the street after the apocalypse.

And damn if that isn’t just a metaphor for Nathan’s entire fucking existence and Deacon's part in it.

**Author's Note:**

> ive never actually written anything fallout related before...which means ive never written DEACON before, so feedback would be great.
> 
> also for any of u who havent played pre-bethesda fallout games and r doubting if theres video porn in the fo universe: there is, and you can star in it in fo2. i wish the later games had reputation titles like fo1 and fo2 did, i always liked being publicly labeled a "grave robber" lmao. people find a way to create and distribute pornography, even after the end of the world...how poetic


End file.
